Saved
by darknessnl
Summary: My take on how Michael should save Sara during the riot. MS. One Shot.


**Summary:** How I think Michael saving Sara should go.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Never will be.

Michael stood transfixed as he watched the good doctor crouch behind a gurney, petrified. He could see the other cons in the background, pounding on the glass and screaming. Trying to frighten her. And it was working. He knew what they'd do to her, after all, most of these guys had been in here for years. Without women. He watched as the one man vigorously tried to smash the glass in the door.

He turned and grabbed Sucre by the arm, and started running in the direction of their cell. Michael knew Sucre was confused but explaining would take time. Time Sara may not have. He practically threw himself though the holeand he was happy to see that Sucre followed without question.

"Where're going, Papi?"

"The infirmary."

"What? Why? I thought you said we were behind schedule. We can't break out now. You'll leave some pissed off cons beh-"

"We're not breaking out."

"What?"

"We're trying to stop people from breaking in."

They found themselves climbing a ladder that Michael knew they would climb again someday. Hopefully. Michael turned to face Sucre when the reached the top.

"You should go back."

"What?"

"Go back."

"Why?"

"Trust me."

Sucre looked puzzled but turned around. Shaking his head and muttering something that sounded like 'I can't believe I'm taking orders from the new kid in the block.'

Michael moved more quickly, he'd wasted time. He ran through several corridors and climbed into a large ventilation shaft which he knew led to the infirmary. He soon found himself over the infirmary, still in the shaft, he stopped crawling and when he moved he found that he could kneel comfortably in the shaft. He found a grate which allowed him to see down into the infirmary. He could hear the shouts of the cons who were, apparently, still unsuccessful in breaking in. As he moved over the grate he saw Sara, still crouched behind the table, syringe in hand. He lifted the grate with some effort and called to her.

"Sara."

She looked up, frightened, until she realized who it was. "Michael..."

He reached his arm down, "Come on, I won't hurt you." He said it as sincerely as he could; after all, if it sounded even the slightest bit scary she might've declined his offer.

Apparently she trusted him enough because he saw her climb onto the table top. As she did so she grabbed his arms, and with a little manuvering on Michael's part (as the shaft wasn't exactly wide open spaces) he managed to pull her up and slide thegrate into place.

She leaned into the wall of the shaft, relieved to be slightly safer than she was before. Only when she sighed did Michael notice that he'd yet to remove his arms from around her.

"How'd you get here?" she asked him.

He wanted to tell her the truth but knew that if he did Lincoln wouldn't live to see his forties.

"One of the guard's rooms. It let me into an area where I could access the ventilation system for the infirmary."

"How'd you know which way to go?"

"A little luck. A little common sense. I just headed in the general direction of the infirmary." Another lie. God he hated this.

She nodded, not fully believing him, but not wanting to push her luck. He _was _still a convict after all.

"Okay, so what now?"

"One of the offices."

"What?"

"We hide in an office, find a phone and have someone come get you."

"Michael..."

"It's the best I've got."

She nodded again.

He led her out of the shaft and back into the corridors used by the guards (who were nowhere to be seen, as they were cowering in a guard's room somewhere). He soon found what he was looking for: an outlet to the section of the prison which contained the offices of the board of directors.

Sara followed, ignoring the nagging in the back of her brain that asked her why Michael knew exactly how to get there.

They came out atan office that looked like it had been vacated recently. Thyey found the phone but it was disconnected. Chances are all of the phones were inoperable.

Sara threw the reciever back into the cradle. And let out a frustrated sigh. She turned to face Michael, and found him almost directly behind her.

"Thank you." she said, but she found him looking past her, embarrassed. "How is it down there?"

"Chaotic. Bestial. Cutthroat."

She nodded, a habit she was forming. She looked up at him. It was then that she noticed the red light on his forehead.

"Michael..."

"What?"

She instinctively pushed him backwards; she hadn't known where the instinct came from, she'd never been in a situation like this, but she didn't question it. As he fell he grabbed her wrist and she tumbled down on top of him.

"What...was that?"

"The light." she said frantically.

He looked at her skeptically, she couldn't possibly be going crazy could she. Post-traumatic stress disorder he could understand, but they weren't actually out of the stressful situation yet. So what was going on?

"The laser light. From a gun. On your head." She said as she slowly regained her ability to speak. "They were going to shoot you." She rolled off him as he looked towards the window, he could faintly hear the sounds of men from _outside_ and the sound of helicopter.

They moved behind the desk in the room, sliding underneath it. It was a small cramped space but it felt safer than the large empty room around them.

Michael had been silent for near a half an hour. She'd saved him. She'd _saved_ him. _She'd_ saved _him_.

"Why?" he finally asked. His voice was quiet, confused.

"You save me. I save you." she replied simply. She laid her hand over his, "We're in this together."

He wanted desperately to tell her that she shouldn't have been in this at all. That it was his fault she was nearly raped, he'd ruined the air conditioning system which caused friction in the cell block, which caused the riot. But he couldn't, he hated lying. He wantd to tell her he was sorry. But he couldn't. So he gave her the next best thing.

He turned his hand over under hers, locking her fingers with his. Comfort.

She seemed surprised at first but tried to hide it.

They didn't talk for a while. An hour. Maybe two.

He brought her hand to his lips several times. Kissed it. A simple gesture. One which he hoped she'd later return.

It was another four hours before either of them spoke. They just sat there. Hand in hand. Exchanging small yet significant gestures.

The phone rang, the boys on the outside must've been working hard to fix it. Sara reached over the top of the desk and answered it; her hand never leaving Michael's.

As she spoke, Michael could faintly hear the voice on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Tancretti?"

"Yes."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. I'm alright."

"Who's with you?"

"Michael Scoffield. A...prisoner." she squeezed his hand."

"Has he hurt you?"

"No."

"You're sure."

"Quite."

"Dr. Tancretti..."

"He saved my life."

"He's not telling you to say this?"

"No. Check the tapes. Examine me. No."

"Doctor..."

"No. I get to ask a question."

"Of course."

"Is the riot over?"

"Mostly." she sighed, relieved.

"Is my father here?"

"Yes." She sighed again, but she didn't sound relieved.

"So he gave the orders?"

"Which ones were those, Ma'am?"

"Shoot to kill."

"Yes."

She hung up the phone. Michael looked at her.

"You just hung up on him."

"I know."

"Why?"

"My father ordered to have you shot."

"So...he didn't know the circumstances."

"He never does."

Michael didn't ask what she meant. He thought he had an idea.

Within ten minutes voices could be heard in the hall. The cavalry had arrived. Sara stood, taking Michael with her. She faced him; stoic, nervous.

"Thank you." she said for the second time, looking directly at him, making sure he knew. She wanted her questions answered,she wanted to know why one day he'd woken up and decided to become a felon; why he'd looked so relieved when he'd tested _postive_ for diabetes; what exactly was it about him that made him different from everyone else she'd treated. He wouldn't give her the answers, she knew that much.

He nodded, smiled slightly.

And she kissed him.

And as the door opened he let go of her hand and she smiled; she'd found all that she needed to know: Michael Scoffield was different.

He was different, she knew, because he was innocent.

**A/N:** I wrote this in just a few minutes, sorry about the quality. Not too crazy about it, but I had to do it. Review please.


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